


Purebred

by UneJolieOrdure



Series: Reader Beware, You're In For a Scare [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Dirty Talk, F/M, First Time, Implied Consent, Puppy Play, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader is her own warning, Reader is problematic too tho, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, The author uses the word "cock" un-ironically for the first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-17 07:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11271138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UneJolieOrdure/pseuds/UneJolieOrdure
Summary: If you are a bitch, then at least you are a bitch with a fine pedigree.





	Purebred

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a lot of these reader-centric fics lately, and I think they're insanely fun! It seemed like a good break from my regularly scheduled programming. This type of story is a bit of a stretch for me since my writing is usually painfully unsexy and at least a little bit tongue-in-cheek, but I think the freedom of the anonymity of the main character will help me out. I'll probably do a few of these, but I don't know how similar they'll be. They'll probably just get worse from here on out. 
> 
> Here's some weird music that makes me feel weird things. Hyperlinking is for people who aren't lazy garbage. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gbVpndBCIQ

You are a Northern lady, and a good one. You have always been loyal to the sensibilities of those around you—basic, rugged, brutal, practical, survivalist. Your family has kept the Old Ways and will likely continue to keep them until the last of your line goes extinct. Practical to the core, you had always expected to marry someone inherently Northern and to bear that sullen burden with dignity, but you never quite imagined that you would find yourself ensconced in the cold belly of the Dreadfort, in the dark still of the night after your wedding festivities had quieted. Well, that is, if the word "festivities" could truly be applied to anything that went on here. Your family certainly isn't the epitome of joviality, but at least they have it in them to dance and drink a little at a wedding. The Boltons and their household seemed to have confused this occasion with a funeral. They had all stared at you as if you were a terrible moldering corpse propped up in your chair, and after a while, you had begun to feel like one.

You have not managed to shake that feeling. With not enough drink in you to put you at ease, you feel like a stiff, strange marionette in your gown as you are led by your handmaiden into the near-empty room that you will now call your own, the room that your husband will be able to enter as he pleases. You think, absurdly, about how much you had always hated sharing a chamber with your younger sister when the both of you had been quite small, how she had snored and talked in her sleep and woken you with her tossing. It is warm enough, in that room. There is a fire, a thick wooden mantle over the fireplace where you assume you would put keepsakes if you had any keepsakes. There is a bed and a chair, both drowning in furs, a chest, a simple vanity where you are going to have to do things like take care of your toilette. It is all very normal. You like it, even.

Nevertheless, you are not stupid. You know who you've married. You are not deaf. You listen to rumors, especially those concerning House Bolton's troublesome bastard (recently absolved of that stain, mind you.) You are just not going to get ahead of yourself. You are not one for hysterics. You inherited your stoicism; it is said that your mother barely made a peep during childbirth. It would shame your bloodline to start swooning now, this late in the game.

You are not left to your own devices for long. The door creaks open, catching you lingering before the mirror, holding your own gaze as if to steady yourself. If half of what you have heard is true, the man in the doorway doesn't care for the kind of figure you cut in your wedding gown. He is already leering at what is beneath it. You cross the room without looking at your new husband and sit down on the edge of the bed with a casualness that does not reflect your true feelings. Only then do you look up into his pale eyes, lifting your chin as proudly as you can.

“I have seen the way you treat your bitches,” you say bluntly. You are more nervous than you can ever remember being. More than anything you want that nervousness taken out of your hands. “Your mastery over them impresses me.” He eyes you up, a terrible smile sneaking onto his face. He is quick to pick up on things unsaid. You like that about him already. You hate repeating yourself.

“A grand compliment from my new wife,” he says, playful in that dangerous way that will soon become quite familiar to you, strolling across the room. “Or shall I say my new bitch?” He fists a hand in your glossy hair and hauls you to your feet; you make a noise somewhere halfway between outrage and approval. Your say is gone. “Untrained. Poorly behaved.” He lifts your upper lip with his thumb, smearing rouge up your cheek. You grit your teeth like a dog who is considering an ill-advised bite. “Beautiful teeth, I must say. Healthy gums.” He releases your lip and turns your head roughly from side to side. “Clear eyes. Good bone structure. Obviously quite well-bred. Perhaps I can do something with you after all.” He finally releases your hair, but not without giving you a good teeth-rattling shake first.

“Dogs don't need silver." You do not register these words until it is too late. One of your silver earrings comes out cleanly and easily, but the clasp is stuck on the other. Your earlobe makes an obscene tearing sound like thick, wet paper being ripped; blood drops hot on your neck, but you are too surprised to make any noise but a guttural gasp as pain guts your rational mind. Suddenly, your body jerks in protest, flight/fight/freeze set into whirring motion, but he holds you fast as if he had been expecting it, one arm clamped around you to pin both of your arms to your sides. Once you have stilled, he shucks your layers of clothing off in a few practical moves until you are as naked as a beast, pale and slender as a greyhound. "Now. Let's see what we have."

He lifts each of your breasts and then lets them drop, nodding in approval. He runs his hands over your arms and legs, checking for obvious deformities, then slips his hand into the knot of coarse, dark hair between your legs and probes your entrance, testing the elasticity of your muscles. You swallow, but keep your face neutral, still beating with the pain of your torn earlobe.

“Maybe you aren’t as ill-mannered as I had first thought,” he says, amused. “Down, girl.” He takes you by the hair again and forces you to your hands and knees. “Some kennel masters will tell you that the best way to train a bitch is with negative reinforcement—that is, every time she does something wrong, you must punish her swiftly.” He taps his steel-toed boot against your heaving, protruding ribs with a chuckle, not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough so that you know how much it could. “But I think that makes for a mean, disobedient dog. In most cases, I am a fan of positive reinforcement—rewarding a bitch when she does something good. I reward the rest of my bitches with butcher’s scraps, but I think I will have to find something else for your reward. But first, I’ve got to give you a name.” He releases your hair and sits down leisurely in the armchair. “Something that lends itself to your charm, to be sure, but will still remind you of your place.” You stay still, on your hands and knees, your head bowed, afraid to move. The bloody earring is an inch away from your thumb; this does not escape his notice. He laughs, a paroxysm of cruel glee. “I think I’ll call you Silver. Come here, Silver.” You pad across the searingly cold stone floor to his chair; your kneecaps grind against the flags. He ruffles your hair. “Good. Good.” He continues to pet you for a moment, obviously thinking, then stands and strides to the bed. He pats the furs briskly.

“Come on, Silver. Up.” You shuffle over and climb onto the bed, resuming your hands-and-knees position in front of him there. He briefly scans the room, looking for something, then strides over to the fireplace and takes the sharp-ended poker in hand. You try your best not to be alarmed by this. You tell yourself that you can't very well bear his children if he goes and eviscerates you now. “Don’t worry, girl, there won’t be too much punishment,” he says jovially. “Not as long as you’re good.” He taps your buttocks twice with the side-edge of the cold metal apparatus. He holds it easily in one hand as if it were light, nothing, a willow twig. “Up.” You rise onto her knees, your face flushed, your hands at your sides. Another firm tap. “Hands behind your head.” You do as you are told. “Good.” He strolls around your tense body, running the sharp tip of the poker around your waist, leaving a thin red line in its wake. He passes the thing between your legs, spread slightly for balance, and touches it to your sex. It is cold and terrible there. You wonder if he intends to take your maidenhood that way instead. You try not to think about what that would do to your delicate insides. “Speak.” You hesitate momentarily, then give a tentative, pathetic bark. “I can’t hear you, Silver.” You yip louder, your cheeks going even redder with embarrassment, and he laughs, withdrawing the threat of the poker from your vulva. You almost miss it. You are quick to adapt. Your terror is already mingling with hormones, pooling in your gut, curdling, grotesque and hot. You did _ask_ for this. “Down.” You comply, steadying yourself with two handfuls of familiar animal fur.

“I hate to break a good bitch,” he says lovingly, gathering one of your breasts in his hand and pinching your nipple, rolling it between his large fingers. “I prefer to let my bitches give me their loyalty of their own volition, once they have seen that I am a hard but fair master.” He gets up on the bed behind you, on his knees. You do not dare to look, but you hear the sound of his belt coming undone. He taps the small of your back with the poker. “Arch.” You arch her back and he sighs. “Isn’t that lovely.” The poker clatters to the floor loudly. He rubs the head of his cock in the moisture collected on your lips, then presses himself into you. You squeak in surprise, and your muscles clench around him. He wraps his fist in your hair and pulls your head backwards as he fucks you; it does not hurt as your mother had told you it would. It is a strange, foreign feeling, the heavy, hard driving inside of you, but it is not pain.

“What do you think, Silver? Have you been good?” You nod yes. He chuckles and slips his free hand between your legs, massaging the hard, engorged knot there. Your breathing picks up, and your elbows weaken, increasing the painful pull on your hair. Something horrible clicks in your mind and you feel for a moment as if you really _are_ a bitch in heat. You feel for a moment the coarse fur of your own haunches, the increased sense of smell, the harsh, panting breaths of a thirsty animal. With a few more hard, long thrusts, he comes inside of you. Breathing heavily, he releases your hair. You fall forward onto your elbows and then tip over onto the pillows, shaking, leaking your own juices and his as well.

“You’re filthy,” he comments, and you are, all dried blood and ruined rouge and sweat and come. “Perhaps I should put you out in the kennels with your own kind.” You shudder, half-pleasure and half-horror, but it is clear to both of you that the game has reached its natural conclusion, at least for the night. “My lady wife,” he muses, reaching for the bed table to pour you both a glass of wine. “The pervert. My gods, I could not have come up with that myself.” You sit up and, after carefully reclaiming your human body, you grin.

“I was only impressed by your hand with the beasts, so strong and yet so gentle,” you say, half-mocking, but mostly sincere. “I have never been brought to heel before.”

“Oh, silly Y/N,” he sighs, draining his cup in one go and reclining against the pillows, not nearly so dangerous now that he has been satisfied. “I will bring you to heel so well you’ll forget you were ever highborn.” He laughs. “Imagine my luck. Of all the cringing lilies in the valley I am blessed with the nettle.” You laugh as well and take your cup, drinking deep.

“I liked those earrings," you say wistfully, touching the broken flesh of your earlobe regretfully. But, you suppose, marriage is all about compromise and sacrifice.


End file.
